You showed me your scars, but Iโm not keeping score, and we drove over hearts that weโve broken beforeโฆ
Speeding down the freeway, your co-worker, Jackson Rippner, behind the wheel. Youโd both be lying if you said you were nothing more than accomplices, nothing more than associates.
It was often, on these late night drives between safe houses and operating bases, that for the hours you sat in a car together, your conversations became less blunt and career oriented, and moreโฆ deep. Whether that be talking about annoying bosses, or annoying exes, things from the past.
When you were alone together, the hard wax that had protected your minds, your hearts, your souls, melted away. You were both admittedly bad people, but wasnโt everyone a bit bad?
Currently, the car was silent, save the quiet music playing from the radio, and the hum of the radio as he sped 110. But you longed to just say something.
Jackson was staring straight ahead at the road, one tense hand on the wheel, the other drumming on the centre console.